The Little Flame and the Heart of Ice
Syr. The Protecting Flame. But who do the Protect? The Cinder Knight. But who do the serve? The Warden of Lies. But is there Truth? Dito’s Titan has fallen. The beautiful god turned to a hateful creature, filled with onerous wrath. Their essence is now trapped in the Ashen Tower, and their power claimed to craft mortals. Other Titans will fall, and their domains used for creation of new life. Fertility, Dance, Song, and Wilderness; these things will be good for the foundations of mortal life. It will bring them joy, and prosperity, but it will not bring them meaning. Meaning, this is what has brought Syr to the realm of cold and stillness, The Frozen Moment. This world began as a Winter scape, frozen in a perfect moment, a moment that took Narthil an eternity to find. Syr had visited it once in a past that never came to be, but was still very real in the Divine Memory. It was a cold, dark, and very gentle place. But now, the realm was a twisted shadow of its former self: Where there was once calm serenity, there was now dreadful tension. Where there was once tranquil snow, there was now biting ice. Lush evergreens, or at least the echoes of such things, covered in velvety white have been conquered by a desperate, haunted wood. The monastery was now nothing more than a razed ruin. Syr opens their mouth to call out to Narthil, but only the faintest wisp of a whisper escapes their lips. There is still power in this place. Good. Syr began the long trek towards the ruin on the horizon. The cold bit and clawed at Syr but the bellows of breath kept Syr's heart beating, a flickering flame. The twisted bramble of the haunted wood denied Syr passage, but with blade in hand, the god carved through undeterred. Vicious thorns on gnarled branches sought to embrace Syr, but were rebuked by armored flesh. From the Ashen Tower to the frozen steppes and further still through the shadowy tundra, Syr journeyed. On and on, until at last, the desecrated home of Narthil lay ahead. The once elegant halls of Narthil are now a barren ruin of ice. Syr walked the halls, but there was no trace of the titan that was once Narthil. The ruin was empty. Could they have escaped? Could the titan have fled this realm? No, if it had, the power of this place would have dissipated, and crumbled back into the void. It was here, somewhere. Syr called out once more, but their voice was drowned out by the echoing silence. This would not do. Syr would not come to this world, and have it said in the millennia to come that they came here as a pillaging conqueror. One must do such things properly. This would be a conflict of equals, a battle worthy of gods. But if the titan could not be called, and refused to reveal itself, then what was Syr to do? Well, if this realm would not hear their words, he would deliver the message in a different fashion. Syr raised their sword, and began to carve runes in the realm, "Narith. I stand in your realm, and with my sigil, I beckon to confront me." The tension that filled the air shattered like glass. A torrent of cold wind blew through the hall, and from the shadows, a pitiful visage emerged. What had once been the goddess Narthil, was now a hateful revenant. Hoarfrost clung to them and an insidious glow pulsed from their core. The Titan towered over the diminutive god. "Why are you here, little flame?" The voice was thin and gasping. It ate at Syr's mind like frostbite. Syr said nothing at first, as was their way. "To protect." The titan let out a thin smokey laugh, "And what are you protecting, ashen knight?" Syr gripped their blade. "A lie." "Then you will die for a lie." ... The battle raged. The stillness was shattered, and the ice of the world had became scorched from the flames of Syr's will. Syr lay beaten on the cold floor. Their armor had become bent and broken. Fire bled from Syr's brow, their helm far flung in the chaos of battle. They rose again for a countless time. The bellows of their flames rising to a great blaze. The titan was barely scathed. ... They clashed again. Syr's armor was in ruin and white flames rose from the wounds that littered their body. Their sword was broken into a jagged shard. In his other hand was the heart that he'd cut from the titan's chest. "You will come to regret that little flame." The titan wheezed, as it clutched its side. Syr readied their blade. ... Narthil lay in two halves on the ground, having been bisected by a final Tower of flame. Syr clutched on to their severed arm, the titan plucked it off as it toyed with them. The titan's heart was strapped to his side, a faint blue whisp shrouding it. Syr reached out to his realm calling the Veil to drag the titan to the depths of the Ashen Tower. The vanquished foe disappeared and with their task finally finished, Syr began the long journey home. "I'm so tired." Category:Legends Category:Fables